


Forget

by Desdimonda



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angsty Eredar Lords, M/M, One Shot, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11826297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: I was having a bad day and this was a bit of a vent piece for me. Just a little drabble of a snapshot of Kil'jaeden and Archimonde's relationship.





	Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for self harm mention/description.

The tip of his claw sliced at his red skin, in a way that was so familiar. Learned. Almost dutiful. He watched, as if afar. It didn't hurt. Not anymore. Millennia of a life with a body like this did that to you. Age, was etched upon his skin, as much as his choices; as much as his battles won - and lost; as much as the memory of every step he'd become to be who he was, and leave behind who he'd  _been_.

He was so sure of who he was now. An unending force; a pillar of the Legion's power; their Lord, the hand of Sargeras himself. Nothing, could stand before him. All bent before him. All could be quelled, withered, ruined by his hand. Everything should fear him. And they did.

Then why did he stand here, alone, at the seat of his power on Argus, and make himself remember, all he'd left behind, one claw at a time.

He no longer bled. Felfire yawned through the marks scraped, scratched and torn. When he forgot what it felt like to bleed, he'd find one of his minions or concubines, and remember. They liked to bleed for him. It was an honour to bleed for the Lord of the Legion. An even higher honour, when it was by his hand.

Kil'jaeden lifted his head, staring out at the wastes of Argus from the balcony of his palace, at the broken, shattered world, that was home. Sargeras hadn’t shown him this. Or had Kil’jaeden simply decided to not look? What he’d been given, was beyond all that he could have ever attained if he’d turned away...was it not? How could he have said no to Sargeras?

_If I wanted to, I never could have, could I?_

He ran his fingers over the wounds. They felt warm, the naked felfire beneath his touch spreading across his raw skin. He’d lost count at what number this one was. It was easy enough to hide them with the scars of battle, of war, of his violent trysts. No-one would dare question, no-one would dare ask.

He turned over his arm, staring at the first one he remembered. That one, was a punishment. Because for a moment, he longed for what he’d left behind. For what’d he’d been. 

For  _who_  he’d left behind.

Cursing, Kil’jaden turned his arm and leaned forward on the balcony, clawed fingers clutching the black railing, tightly, as his wings sagged gently, the tips dragging against the stone floor.

As he, remembered.

“I thought I felt you return from the Nether,” said Kil’jaeden, as he felt, then heard, the steps of his brother approach, his imposing presence the only thing that he’d allow to walk in these halls, uninvited.

“Such a welcome,” he said with his smooth, commanding voice, his hand drawing along the slide of Kil’jaeden’s wing. He watched, curious, noticing how they drooped low and did not sit high and graceful, exuding his power and presence, so fitting of his name. His hand drew over wing tip to shoulder - bare, of armour - and down, down Kil’jaeden’s arm, feeling the taut muscle, hot, beneath his newly reformed flesh. He touched the swell of felfire, pushing through the scratch of his claws. Archimonde wrapped his hand around his brother’s arm, feeling his wings twitch. “You have more than I remember.”

Kil’jaeden hissed, pulling his arm away, sharply. He spread his wings with a snap, the tip grazing Archimonde’s shoulder as he walked away.

“What else do you remember?” bit Kil’jaeden, his wings fluttering behind him as he leaned back against the barrier. “Because I would rather not.”

Archimonde slowly walked along the balcony edge, his hand sliding along the railing, the tap of his hooves, rhythmic. A small smile curved his lips. “Just like that night, millennia ago, you wanted me to make you _forget_.”

Kil’jaeden turned, his wings still spread, defensively, as Archimonde approached, his hand covering the weeping felfire, drops falling to the stone with a hiss.

His wings twitched, again.

“You barely remembered your name that night, after I was done with you,” drawled Archimonde as he closed in, his body pressing against the demon Lord, feeling the heat of his skin, after endless years apart, stuck, writhing in the Nether. Oh. It felt  _good_. He was glad he’d chosen here as his first steps back. Was there any question, really? “Tonight,” he began, twisting his fel strained fingers with Kil’jaeden’s, just like he had, that night, prying them off the railing, to him.

But Kil’jaeden turned. He took Archimonde’s hand himself. With wings spread, with a force, driven by need, by desperation, by so long apart, Kil’jaeden forced the Eredar Lord around, until his back met his chest, and he could pry his legs apart with a knee.

Archimonde found himself pushed against the balcony edge, staring over their home, with Kil’jaeden at his back, the ache of his need, unmistakable.

Slowly, Kil’jaeden’s wings folded around them both, the claw tips brushing against Archimonde’s arms, up, and down. The Eredar Lord watched, curious.

Leaning in close, Kil’jaeden spoke, his lips ghosting the words against Archimonde’s ear, in echo.

“Tonight, you’ll never want to forget,  _me_.”

Archimonde shivered; he smiled; he closed his eyes as he felt Kil’jaeden’s claws rip at his armour, and drop it to the floor.


End file.
